Blood and Sand - Cockroach
by EitakaJasont
Summary: (Book 3) As one hunt ends, another begins. This time, I'm on the trail of Ann, a previously retired Road Warrior who saved my life. If she's dead, the guilt might just drive me mad. Along the way, I learn more about Vates, the Asgardian whose death earned me the title Aesircide. And to the northeast, new dangers lurk in the pre-Fall city of the Cockroaches.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Beatrice plods across the Salt, her long, evening shadow gliding over the white, crystalline earth behind her. Farther back, the brick structures of Victoria Temple jut up into a purple sky. The squat towers match the color of the Great White, and reflective glass windows further obscure the oasis. Before long, the Temple disappears in a shimmer of heat. If Storyteller and I get separated, I might never be able to find the place again. But at least Trace will be well-hidden. Soon, I hope I'll be able to say the same for Ann. If we can't find her, if she's dead, how will I be able to face Sasha? He won't cry, he won't get angry; he'll calmly state his sorrow and tell me it isn't my fault. But it'll be my fault all the same, and I'll have to live with more guilt. My missing ear itches, but I ignore it.

Storyteller's cheerful, booming voice interrupts my thoughts. "Say, Roman! I recognize that axe you got on you from a story I picked up. And my man Sasha did confirm that you indeed killed Vates."

I face the Historyman seated on my right. "He tell you I'm the Aesircide?"

Storyteller grins and nods. I hum with less enthusiasm and struggle to get comfortable in my seat without bothering the stitches in my gut. Five days ago, I was a Road Warrior looking for work in a new place. Now I have a title and, with it, a reputation as an Asgardian-killer. It's gotten me into trouble once already; I never would've had to prove myself to the God of War if I hadn't called myself the Aesircide. Then again, Ares might not have given Sasha permission to leave with just any Road Warrior. Like most things in the Wasteland, it's a blessing and a curse.

Storyteller runs tattooed fingers through his long, brown beard. "I happen to know several stories about Vates, but I don't know how he died. Would you care to swap tales to pass the time?"

"Uh, yeah, all right."

"Wonderful! You're up first." Storyteller rests his hands behind his head and gives me his full attention.

I tell a condensed version of Vates's Road War: his rig, the ravens, his visions, Khopesh, the fight in my car. "Then he said I was Max reincarnated, and I cut his throat."

Storyteller stares at me through the dark lenses on his goggles. "Go on."

"That's the end."

Storyteller blinks, then shakes his head and smiles. "Well, Roman, you suck at storytelling. But don't worry! I'll tell it better next time." He pulls up one pant leg to reveal more skin covered in tattooed text. He points to a small bare spot on his inner calf. "Look. Here's where that story is going. You're going to be immortalized. How does that feel? I'm going to write 'Aesircide birth' right here."

"You don't have to do that. Save that spot for something more important, yeah?"

"Nah, mate. This is what I do. I keep and tell stories, big and small. And if you ever become a great legend to people out here, I'll have your origins." Storyteller rolls his pant leg back down and laughs. "We can leave the storytelling to ol' Storyteller and the Asgardian-killing to the Aesircide!"

"Fine by me," I say, hoping I don't become anything close to a great legend. If I lie low long enough, maybe the Empire will forget about me. All the madmen and cultists will have to find someone else to be their savior.

Storyteller claps his hands once. "Now it's my turn! I'll tell you a story about Vates. I have three of 'em. Which would you like to hear?"

"Any of them have to do with his brother? The one who left across the Salt?"

Storyteller grins. "Sounds like you want _Vates and the Axe_." He pulls his jacket open and points to a cluster of tattoos on his ribs. Then he takes a deep breath and his entire demeanor changes. He speaks slowly, savoring each word. Behind the goggles, his eyes glow, and I find myself unable to look away. The Great White vanishes, replaced by the world of the story.

_Over 7000 days ago, the Skald took Vates to a far off mountain to teach him how to be a man__**. **__It was a lovely day. The open-roofed, chromatic interceptor, the Vorpal, raced down the worn highway of a civilization past. Dirge the Albino tapped a War tune on the steering wheel as he guided the vehicle around countless potholes._

_A cheerful voice called from the Vorpal's backseat, "Isn't that right, Dirge?"_

_"Hmm?" Dirge grunted. He'd tuned out Fiann's chattering a long time ago. "You say something?"_

_Fiann rolled her eyes. "I was _saying _that Vates is going to make an excellent husband, isn't he? He doesn't think so."_

_Beside the girl, Vates pushed his raven-colored hair out of his face. "I'm a warrior, Fiann." _

_The boy was right. He'd recently won his first battle against a small band of raiders from Ashtown. Under Asgardian law, he was to choose a wife, and, of course, he picked Fiann. The two had met when Vates was but a pup, and they'd been inseparable since. No one really knew why. Aside from their sparkling blue eyes, the two of them were polar opposites. Fiann was tall and graceful with long, blonde hair worn in elaborate braids. Vates was raven-haired and small for a boy of nearly 5000 days. What he lacked in size, he more than made up for with scrappiness. More than one War pup had been killed for slighting him. Fiann was prone to excitement, always smiling and chatting when she wasn't busy showering her fiancé with affection. Vates loved her dearly, but he was not a happy child. He only smiled when Fiann asked, and he gave off an aura of awkwardness and discomfort - head down, hands stuffed in the pockets of the oversized coat he insisted on wearing despite the heat. Fiann wore a lightweight, grey dress with no decoration - fairly modest attire for the bride of an Asgardian. Even their jobs differed. Fiann was training to be a Valkyrie - an Organic, a saver of lives. Vates wanted to be an elite War Boy - a killer like his brother._

_Before Dirge could answer, Skald turned around in the passenger seat to face Vates. Even sitting down, he towered over his younger brother. Skald was like no Asgardian the Wasteland had ever seen. He tied his long, feathery hair in a loose ponytail just to keep it out of his face, completely uninterested in hairstyle as an artform. His clothing was simple, too: denim pants, button-up shirt, red sneakers. Beneath the outfit was a deceptively thin and wiry frame that hid his true strength._

_"You are not a warrior yet, brother," Skald said._

_"I am by the laws of the Asgardian order!"_

_"Laws mean nothing on the Fury Road, Little Raven."_

_Vates scowled at the nickname, but he knew better than to protest further. All Asgardians knew how little Skald cared for laws. The elder brother picked fights unprovoked, killed whenever it suited him, and he refused to marry after his first battle._

_"You need to prove to me that your new title is deserved," Skald said. "If it makes you feel any better, little brother, I think you will make an excellent husband. You've always been more of a lover than a fighter."_

_"See, Vates, nothing to worry about!" Fiann said. She hugged her fiancé, completely unaware of the deep, emotional cut he had just received from his older brother._

_Skald cringed at the sound of Fiann's voice, but Dirge piped up before the Asgardian could retort. __"I think you'd really be something special if you were both a lover _and _a fighter." Dirge glanced with pink eyes at the glowering boy in the backseat. "Most people are barely able to be just one, y'know."_

_Vates stared at his lap. Skald smiled coldly and faced forward, putting his feet up on the dash. Dirge sighed, glad the argument was over. Anyone else who tried to play peacekeeper between the brothers was a deadman, but the albino had special privileges. Instead of marrying, Skald_ _had chosen Dirge, a failed Asgardian-in-training, to keep his weapons and vehicles maintained. Some assumed it was because he saw Dirge's potential as a driver; others surmised Skald wanted another excuse to get into brawls. Dirge had been regularly attacked for his hemophobia, the reason he'd failed to become a warrior, but the bullying ceased after Skald killed a few of the instigators. Now Dirge was completely devoted to the man who had given him a second chance at life. Still, he tried his best to keep Skald's temper in check around Vates and Fiann - not because he had any fondness for the pair, but because he feared the mess he'd have to clean up if Skald went too far._

_Vates sunk into his seat, almost disappearing into his coat. The garment was far too heavy for the desert heat, but he liked the way it moved when he walked. "So, Skald," he said._

_"Hm?" _

_"Where exactly are we going?"_

_"Yeah, Skald, you haven't mentioned anything about it yet!" Fiann said. Once again, Skald recoiled, but the girl didn't notice._

"_He'll tell you when he's ready," Dirge said._

_"That's all right, Dirge. I suppose it's about time I __tell you. Can't keep a secret forever now, can I?" A smile spread across Skald's thin face. "Stop_ _the car and pop the trunk."_

_"You got it, boss." Dirge shot the Asgardian a curious glance. Skald getting excited meant trouble, but Dirge didn't much mind; he liked to see that smile._

_Skald vaulted over the door and opened the trunk of the Vorpal while the others hurried to join him. He pulled out a navy blue duffel bag with six silver javelins hanging from the side._

_"You brought your War gear, Skald?" Fiann asked._

_Skald snarled, "Of course I did."_

_Vates's frown deepened. On Skald's order, he hadn't brought any weapons or gear. But he dared not question._

_Skald shut the trunk and pulled a large piece of old paper from one of the bag's inner pockets. He flattened it on the car. "Do any of you know what this is?"_

_Everyone crowded around and squinted at the crude map drawn on the yellow paper. Dirge shook his head. Vates and Fiann contorted their faces in thought but remained silent. _

_Skald placed a finger daintily on the skull symbol in the center. "This is called the Citadel, the seat of power for a dead Warlord named" —he paused for effect, and the others leaned forward— "the Immortan Joe."_

_Dirge's eyes went wide, and he peered closer at the map over Skald's shoulder. He'd heard of Immortan Joe, they all had, but only in rumors and tales. "So he's real, then?"_

_Skald flashed a smile and reached up to pat Dirge's cheek. "Yes, Immortan Joe is real - _was _real. He was an early success story here in the Wastes. The de facto ruler of the Triumvirate: water, bullets, oil. He was eventually defeated and killed by one of his own Imperators and an escaped slave who freed his wives."_

_"What's so important about them?" Vates asked._

_"Excellent question, Little Raven! That Imperator was Furiosa."_

_Fiann gasped. The legendary Imperator Furiosa was a Saint within the church. Her all-female followers were wildly fanatic and dangerous. Recently, the Gemini Bitches, a set of identical twins who worshipped the Imperator, had caused all sorts of problems for the Asgardians and Valkyries._

_Skald lowered his voice and spoke like he was cursing. "And that slave was Mad Max."_

_The others gulped. Mad Max was the Saint of all Road Warriors, though few bothered to actually worship him. The only cultists dedicated to him hid in the shadows like cowards, and nobody knew anything about them. A recently disbanded gang of Road Warriors calling themselves the MFP had actively denounced Max's divinity. Still, his name had power, and tales of his deeds inspired War pups and Road Warriors alike._

_"And finally, one of the wives was the Dag, otherwise known as Thor's mother." Skald shut his mouth and smiled, reveling in the shocked expressions around him._

_Vates surveyed the map with newfound wonder. "This is an incredibly holy place, brother." He turned to Skald and frowned. "What are we going to do?"_

_"We're going to storm it, kill everyone in it, and reclaim it for Midgard."_

_"What?! Why would we do that? _How _would we do that?"_

_Skald sneered down at the boy. "Watch your tone! We're going to attack it because it has become home to Historymen squatters. All of them are going to die. 'How' is something you'll find out, Little Raven."_

_Vates slunk back and crossed his arms. "So this is a test?"_

_"You could say that. I have a plan, but you're just going to need to wait and put some faith in me. Now, any more questions before we keep moving?"_

_Fiann stared at the ground and shook her head._

_"No, boss," Dirge said._

_Vates wasn't convinced they'd make it out alive, but Dirge had seen Skald walk away from the corpses of men who by all rights should've killed him, and he'd seen that enough times to believe his master could win any fight he set his mind to. Warfare was Skald's passion. That was why he chose not to marry or even fuck: as soon as one battle was over, Skald was already training for the next. Dirge had undying faith in Skald, even if Vates didn't. Still, the Albino wasn't thrilled at the idea of slaughtering an entire mountain full of people. Not because he thought they should live, of course. If Skald said they should die, then they should die. But he knew he'd have to work hard to keep his phobia from getting in the way of Skald's plan._

_As the Vorpal sped across the Wasteland once again, Dirge tapped his fingers on the wheel, drumming out Skald's favorite War tune. The Asgardian hummed along. In the backseat, __Vates pulled a small notebook from his sleeve. During the brief moments between training sessions, Vates managed to have his own hobbies. Of particular interest to him was poetry; he enjoyed writing in the runic language of the Asgardians. He wrote and read exclusively in Asgardian with no desire to learn the common script. What his poems said, only Vates and Fiann knew._

_Dirge's drumming intensified, and Skald broke out in song - a talent for which he was well-known. His powerful tenor voice carried over the Vorpal's engine as the quartet sped toward the Citadel._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"I actually don't know how the song goes."

"What?" I blink, and the world of the story fades.

Storyteller clears his throat and glances down. "Well, Skald is known for singing a certain tune, but it doesn't exist anywhere else. Vates might have remembered it, but" —he shrugs— "unless Dirge comes out of hiding, I'm afraid that that song is lost to us. Shame, really."

"What's he- uh, hem- that thing Dirge has?"

"Hemophobia! That's the irrational fear of blood. Some stories say that's what turned his hair white, but that's a little dramatic - even for one of my stories."

"You said this story's called _Vates and the Axe_, yeah? Where's the axe?"

Storyteller grins. "The story's not over! You'll hear the rest in the morning. We should focus on being on the lookout at night."

We've left the Salt and begun the long trek across yellow-white dunes. No sign of trouble, but it's nearly dark. That story made time race by. Storyteller lives up to his name; when he was speaking, I found myself pulled into another place. Didn't even notice Storyteller remove his goggles and scarf. What else could I have missed? Rakshasa spying on us? A distant War Party? Bounty hunters on the hunt for Trace?

"You don't relax much, do you?"

"Sasha asked me the same thing. Told him I'd try to loosen up at the Temple."

Storyteller shakes his head with a smile. "You Road Warriors are just like the stories." He reaches into a saddlebag and pulls out a silver kettle and green pouch. "I'll make us some coffee. Do you want so-"

An explosion splits the evening air. Jaw jolts awake and barks. I grab Storyteller's shoulder and pull him down in the seat. He drops his coffee grounds with a sharp curse. Beatrice continues walking, not bothered by the deafening sound, until Storyteller tugs on the reins.

The Wasteland returns to silence. Keeping my head low, I look around so fast my neck makes an unhealthy cracking sound. Sound came from the north. Closeby. Nothing in sight, but the long shadows of the dunes could be hiding anything. "Heard that before. On our way to the Temple. Thought it was Rakshasa, but never saw anything."

"They promised not to bother us."

"Maybe the deal went bad." I pause to push away thoughts of Sasha caught and tortured by the Rakshasa. His halflife cut even shorter - all because I wanted my car back. Storyteller never should've let him leave the Temple. "Let's check it out, yeah?"

"We'll go on foot. B's a big target." Storyteller hops off the camel with a grunt and scratches the animal under her chin. "Stay here, girl. Be back in a bit."

I turn to Jaw. "Protect our shit, yeah? And bark if there's trouble." Jaw wags his tail, and that's good enough for me.

Storyteller and I keep low and rush north. At the crest of a steep dune, we drop prone and peer into the small valley below. Something's there - something big. Silver moonlight glints off sharp metal edges.

Storyteller produces a spyglass from his jacket. "Huh. That's a tank. Rusted out and half-buried, but a tank nonetheless. Wonder how it hasn't been scrapped yet."

He passes me the glass. Sure enough, a large tank. Dark grey-green metal scarred with orange rust. Only the front half remains exposed above the sand. Missing its treads. The barrel is bent at a harsh angle; the explosion couldn't have come from the cannon. Grenade? Pipe bomb? No sign of activity. Too still, too quiet.

Another explosion shatters the night. I cover my head, and Storyteller curses again. But there's no light, no shockwave, no projectile. Just the sound, and afterward, a metallic clang and a hollow echo.

Storyteller scratches his beard. "That sounds like it's inside the tank."

I return the spyglass. "That's why it hasn't been scrapped: someone's living in it. Rakshasa or not, they've managed to keep scavengers away."

Storyteller's eyes light up, and he takes another look. "Sounds like a good story. Want to find out?" Before I can reply, he jumps to his feet and slides down the face of the dune.

"Wait!" But the Historyman doesn't stop. I draw my pistol and take off after him, cursing under my breath. I feel naked without my car.

We enter the flat, empty stretch between the dune and the tank, crouching to reduce our silhouettes. A quarter of the way across. Silence. A third. Nothing. Halfway. A sharp ringing pierces my good ear, followed by garbled static. We freeze, and I recognize the sound: a loudspeaker like the one Vates had. A gruff, booming voice cuts through the static, but I can't make out any of the words.

Storyteller shakes his head. "Sorry, buddy, we don't speak Rakshi! You'll have to try again!"

The voice returns, still artificially loud, but much timider. "_I, um, I… Beware, mortal! The God Under the Sand tolerates no trespassers! Turn around now or - or - or I shall smite you!"_

"Try harder, God Under the Sand! And take a look at us!"

"_Oh god, you're not Rakshasa. You're Road Warriors! I - I - I… Please don't hurt me!"_

I aim my pistol at the tank. "Come out where we can see you! No weapons!"

"_Hold it, h-hold it, hold it! I don't - oh man - I don't have any weapons, I swear. Take whatever you want. Just please don't hurt me."_

More static, then silence. Storyteller's hand hovers over his holstered revolver. I hope he's as good a shot as he claims, but if not, it won't be the first time I've had to protect a Historyman.

Metal hinges creak and squeal as a hatch swings open on top of the immobile War machine. A human shape emerges and swings one leg over the edge. The other foot catches on the lip, and the figure tumbles down the metal slope and lands in the sand with a soft thud.

I move in with Storyteller at my side. On the ground, a man dressed in a lab coat groans and mutters to himself.

I train my weapon on the stranger. "Get up."

"We won't hurt you, buddy," Storyteller adds.

The man gets to his feet and raises empty, shaking hands. The olive skin of his face is streaked with soot - as are the cracked, round eyeglasses perched on his nose. Short locks of curly, black hair stick to his sweaty forehead, and an attempt at a mustache twitches on his upper lip. Splatters of multi-colored liquids and more soot cover his once-white coat.

The man opens his mouth and rambles in a quiet, quivering voice: "I'm alone, guys. Oh man, please don't hurt me. I'm just - I, um - I'm just trying to work. You know what that's like, right?"

I shake my head once. "Different line of work."

Storyteller steps close to the terrified stranger and pats him down. The man squirms but doesn't try to attack or run. He's short and a little water fat - not muscle-bound or starving like most Wastelanders. How the hell has he managed to survive this long? He's my age, maybe a little older, but he seems completely helpless. Maybe he cooks up some sort of explosives in there and sets traps to keep people away. Or some shit like the Mozzies use to put people to sleep.

"That you making all that noise earlier?" I ask. "And last night?"

"Yeah, that was me, yeah. One, um, one of my projects keeps backfiring. I'm an inventor. I - I build things."

"That voice trick really work on the Rakshasa?"

"I don't know. I, um, never had to use it before. R-Rakshasa treat this tank as a holy place. Me and, um, a business partner found it, moved in, and ate the offerings the Rakshasa left for their god. He's, um, gone now, though - my partner." His eyes brighten behind the cracked glasses. "Um, you haven't run into a man named Vance, have you?"

"No."

The stranger's face falls. "Oh."

"You see a woman named Ann around here? Burned face, rifle, talks a lot?"

"No, no, sorry. I don't, um - I don't really see anyone. Oh! I have wiretaps all throughout the, um, Rakshasa villages, outposts, and shrines, though." A hint of pride enters his voice, and he speaks with more confidence. "If anyone saw her, it would be them. But the only news lately is that a ghost attacked, and now the Salt Walkers made a deal for a car."

Storyteller pauses his patdown and points a thumb at himself. "Howdy, Salt Walker here. That ghost sound like your girl, mate?"

"That's her. You hear anything about a leper? Or a man in a mask?"

The stranger bites his lip and rolls his eyes to the side while he thinks. "No, no, nothing like that."

I breathe a small sigh of relief. They haven't turned on Sasha.

Storyteller's hand stops over one of the lab coat's many pockets. He reaches inside and pulls out a thick notebook, a large piece of folded paper, and a smaller pair of glasses. "What's all this?"

"Oh, um, those are just my notes."

Storyteller opens the book and squints at one of the pages. "What language is this?"

The stranger tries to laugh, but it turns into an anxious wheeze. "Eh, it's not - sorry, I - I just have atrocious handwriting. I can, um - I can read it for you if you want."

But Storyteller has already closed the book and turned his attention to the paper. Unfolded, the sheet is about a meter across. Multicolored lines twist over the entire plain, decorated with various markings and written phrases.

"That's a, um, topographic map of the region."

Storyteller lets out a long whistle. "This is impressive, my boy. I've never seen a map this detailed."

"Where did you get it?" I ask.

"I made it myself. Well, um, me and Vance - Vance and I made it together."

Storyteller glances up from the map and grins. "You can put your arms down, by the way. You're clean. I won't bite. But I can't speak for my partner here."

I lower the pistol. "Won't hurt you as long as you calm down and don't try anything, yeah?"

"Yeah. Yeah, yeah, I'm calm, I'm calm. Um, right, right. Sorry," Frankie drops his arms and presses them tight against his sides.

"You got a name?" Storyteller asks.

"Name? Yeah, I have a name, um, sir."

"Then spit it out!"

"Frankie!"

"Howdy, Frank. My name's Storyteller. This here's Roman." He folds up the map and looks at me with a gleam in his eyes. "What do you think? Should we bring him along?"

Frankie blanches. "Me? I - I - I - I don't think so!"

I narrow my eyes at Storyteller. "Why?"

"This map could save us time finding that old car. We won't have to retrace your steps." Storyteller tilts his head at Frankie. "And he's the only one who can read it."

"He'll panic at the first sign of trouble."

"Oh god, yes, yes, I will. I - I can't survive out there!"

Storyteller holds out the map, notebook, and glasses to the inventor. "Listen, Frank, you can't stay here forever. We came across you completely by accident; we almost tripped over your home. Lucky for you, we have no interest in hurting you, but not everyone's going to be that nice. I guarantee your voice of god routine won't work on them, either. Your inventions won't matter much then, will they?"

Frankie snatches his belongings from Storyteller and presses them to his chest. "Y-yes, but - but this is the only way I can work - the only way I can live! What if - what if Vance comes back? I - I -" His speech devolves into panicked sputtering.

Storyteller lowers his voice. "Roman, I'm not going to pretend it isn't a risk. But he knows the area, and I think that's worth it."

"Fine. But if we get into trouble, I'm not taking any bullets for him, no matter how valuable he is."

"You're all heart, Road Warrior!"

I step forward and meet Frankie's watery gaze. "Look, you show us how to use that map, and we'll drop you off here on our way back, yeah?"

"Unless you enjoy our company so much that you decide to come home with us!" Storyteller adds.

Frankie nods so furiously that his glasses nearly fall off. He presses them to his face and clears his throat. "Yeah, yeah, all right, I - I can do that. I can help, um, just for a few days."

I nod. "Pack your things. Our ride's waiting."

Storyteller huffs. "Don't call my best girl a 'ride,' Roman. She's much more than that, and she knows it." He shoves two fingers in his mouth and whistles sharply.

We're back on the trail in no time. Beatrice walks at a slow but steady pace. Storyteller makes coffee, and I keep an eye on Frankie in the backseat, who looks more uncomfortable with every step of the camel. He taps nervous fingers against the worn leather of the briefcase in his lap.

"What's in the case?" I ask.

"Um, it's just my stuff. Notebooks, journals, tools. You know, sciencey stuff." He unlatches the case and digs through its contents. "I see you have a pistol there. It's in good shape. I - I've never used a gun, but I read a lot about them. One of my side projects is a suppressor. See?" He holds open a yellow notebook. A detailed diagram has been carefully drawn and labeled on a blue grid. "I could build you one, um, if you want. It'll make your pistol as quiet as a crossbow. Or - or - or" —he flips to another page, and his nervous stuttering ceases— "something for a rifle - for your ghost friend. This can increase the accuracy and precision. I also know a bunch of handloads: dragon breath, flechette, bean bag, man-stopper, razor wire, chain shot, various acids, you name it. Or I can modify the whole thing to chamber different kind of rounds - I can go down to nine mil and all the way up to fifty caliber, depending on what you want to fire."

Storyteller looks up from his kettle. "Slow down! Why do you know so much about firearms?"

"Oh, um, have you seen me? If I ever got into a fist fight, I would need a gun just to even the playing field."

I shake my head. "That wouldn't help. Just because you've read about a gun doesn't mean you'll be able to use one, especially against people out here. You need practice."

"S-s- I'm sorry. I know I'm hopeless. I was - I was trying to just make a joke."

"Roman, lighten up! Besides, I would do far better at training him than you." Storyteller pulls out his revolver and twirls it a few times before snapping out the cylinder to reveal six loaded bullets. "I'm the fastest draw out here."

Frankie pales. "You, um - you don't have to do that, either of you."

I study Storyteller with a skeptical eye. Until we have a reason for him to fire that thing, there's no telling how good he actually is. Then again, Ann made similar lofty claims about her ability, and she was right. I turn back to Frankie. "My ghost friend. Ann."

"Right, right, right. Is she, um - is she your lady, or what?"

"My what?"

"You know, your lady, like - like - like -"

Storyteller bursts into laughter and slaps his knee.

Frankie blushes. "What - what's so funny?"

"You two! You're both just so awkward! Also, it's just funny to me because I know who Ann's man is, and it's _not_ Roman."

"Is it you?"

"Ha! No, we've never met. Besides, I don't ride that way, Frank."

"She's got eyes for another Historyman," I say. "I owe it to both of them to find her. Thinking she might've backtracked to an old car we found a few days ago - last landmark we were at together."

"Right, I - I can help with that. I can help." Frankie produces a compass and protractor from the briefcase. I haven't seen things like that since Utopia, where Simon used them on old maps in his books. Then the inventor pulls out his topographic map and tiny glasses. He places the lenses on the tip of his nose, in front of the other pair. "So, um, we are about here. The nearest Rakshasa outposts are designated with this skull symbol here, here, and here. And the Salt is over here. I'm assuming you and Ann came in from the west, right?"

Storyteller hands out small cups of coffee - perfect to keep us warm and awake. Together, the three of us work out the route Ann, Sasha, and I took from Ares based on what I remember. Storyteller was right: the map is impressive. It stretches from the Salt to the edge of the Empire, ending just before Ares. The inventor has marked Rakshasa dens, outposts, and patrol routes, along with other dangers and points of interest. Frankie draws a line to mark my journey with a surprisingly steady hand. When he's in his element - explaining the map or one of his inventions - he's as confident as Storyteller and as fast-talking as Ann. It's only when he tries to talk to Storyteller or me that his nerves get the better of him. How long was he alone in that tank?

"We, um - we have a heading. Southwest."

Storyteller adjusts Beatrice's reins. "I'll take first watch. Roman, you catch Frankie up on that story I was telling. I don't want him missing any vital details!"

I do my best to recount the beginning of _Vates and the Axe_, but it's pathetic compared to the way Storyteller told it. The Historyman makes fun of me the whole time, and Frankie asks a lot of questions, but we get through it long before dawn. Frankie falls asleep in his seat, and Storyteller and I keep watch in silence - a relief after so much talking.

My eyes watch the horizon, but my mind wanders. Ann missing, Sasha dying. Vates dead, Skald coming back. Trace wanted by Anuket. So many worries, and none of them the one thing I should be most concerned about: my car. A handful of days ago, I might've charged straight into a Rakshasa den to get my ride back. It was all I had, all I needed, and I killed anyone who touched it. After Simon, I didn't think I could ever have people in my life again - just a vehicle covered in blood. But now I have friends, and I'll kill anyone who touches them - or at least I'll try. I couldn't save Simon, and I don't want to save the whole Wasteland, but if I can just save my friends, that will be enough. If I can't…

My dead ear itches. I scratch at the scar tissue and turn my focus back to the night.

* * *

**WARNING: **The next two chapters, set within the story of _Vates and the Axe_, feature some dark content, including emotional and physical abuse (nothing sexual). This series has always been rated M, but so far it's only been for action-violence and language, and I didn't want to catch anyone off guard. If you don't feel comfortable reading the chapters but want a summary of what happens, please send me a PM. As always, thanks to everyone reading this story. Special thanks this time round to Trance 20666 and RedHood001 for the follows/favorites and to burue106 for the follow/favorite and review. Stay tuned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_Fiann leaned forward in her seat as the Vorpal approached the Citadel. "It's huge!"_

_Vates shook his head, unimpressed by the towering pillars of rock topped with machinery and plants. "Come on, Fi. Ares is bigger than that. Hell, I think Midgard is bigger."_

_"But look at all the green! It's almost as beautiful as Eden."_

_"I don't like how close we are to Ashtown."_

_Skald swiveled in his seat. "Oh? Are you worried about the Captain coming to get you? Cowards can't be full Asgardians, you know."_

_"I'm not a coward, and I'm not scared of Thruster!"_

_Skald's hand lashed out. Vates flinched, but the Asgardian only ran a hand through his little brother's hair. "Really? I seem to remember you running away from the good Captain when he was but a mediocre Lieutenant."_

_"That was a retreat, and you know it! It's completely different."_

_"I guess you'll understand when you're older. You're going to regret not killing the boy."_

_Dirge cleared his throat. "Well, if Thruster shows his face here, we'll just wipe him out, too. Simple as that."_

_Skald smiled. "See? Dirge here knows how things work. _He _could be a decent Asgardian - if not for his disposition, of course."_

_Vates sunk low in his seat, and Fiann whispered comforting words in his ear. Dirge sighed, wishing Skald wouldn't grind Vates's gears right before a mission that would likely require teamwork._

"_So are you going to tell us your plan?" Vates asked. "Or are you still waiting to have a big reveal? It's important for us to know what we're doing."_

_"Do you know what else is important, brother?"_

_Vates mumbled under his breath._

_"What was that?" Skald leaned in, cupping his ear. _

_"Discipline."_

_"Good."_

_"What does discipline have to do with not knowing the plan?" Fiann asked._

_Skald glared at her. "Discipline means you follow orders without question, no matter what. I'm the superior here in rank and seniority. You aren't a warrior, so I don't expect you to understand."_

_Fiann cowered, clutching Vates's arm. The raven-haired boy sat up and glared at his brother. "Don't talk to her like that."_

"_Watch your tongue, Little Raven."_

"_She's my betrothed!"_

_Skald smirked. "That means far less to me than you think."_

"_Boss, we're entering the Citadel," Dirge said._

"_Good. If you'd kindly pull into the Citadel, Dirge, we shouldn't keep our hosts waiting."_

_"Sure thing, boss."_

_The Vorpal slowed as it reached the gargantuan towers of yellow-orange earth. Fiann gazed around in wonder, her fear of Skald forgotten for a blissful moment. Halflives looked up from their gardens and shuffled out of their huts, forming a sizeable crowd at the base of the Citadel. Above, an unarmed guard on a catwalk shouted something at the vehicle and then dashed through a cave entrance. Vates tensed up, waiting for an alarm to sound or for Skald to give the signal to attack the villagers._

_Skald pointed straight ahead. "Stop her inside."_

_The crowd parted to allow the Vorpal to pass. A few tattooed Historymen mingled with the crowd, but the rest were Wretched - mutants, diseased, weak, pitiful in the eyes of an Asgardian._

_"Disgusting," Vates muttered._

_"I know." Skald gave Vates a slight nod of approval. For once, the brothers were on the same page. "Dirge, don't look at them. I don't want you causing a scene."_

"_Yes, boss."_

_Dirge cut the engine. Skald pulled something from beneath his seat: a bright yellow jacket, pristinely clean and pressed. A large, white 'S,' the first letter of his name, stood out on the front; Dirge had stitched the remaining letters with red thread. Skald donned the jacket and sprung to his feet, standing on the topless Vorpal's passenger chair. The crowd took one look at the Asgardian and lurched backward as one body. There were gasps, whispers, cries of fear. They recognized the famous yellow jacket, the signature garment of Thor's most ruthless killer._

_Skald held his arms open. "Well? What kind of welcome is this?"_

_A voice, high-pitched like a child's, called out from the throng: "My apologies, my apologies. We were not - excuse me, please, pardon me." A short, portly man pushed through the crowd. He wore the tattoos of a Historyman on his lower arms, but the rest of his soft body was unmarked. He peered up at Skald with fear in his eyes. "We were not expecting company, Lord Skald. __What brings you all the way out here, if I may ask?__"_

_Skald narrowed his eyes at the man, then smiled. __"I'd like to see the First."_

_"Very well. I can bring you and your band to see him and Bishop."_

_For the first time in a thousand days, Skald was lost for words. In the Vorpal's backseat, Vates went rigid, and Fiann's eyes widened. Dirge cursed under his breath. Rumors said the MFP had split up after some incident, but no one knew for sure. If Bishop were here, his terrifying companions might not be far behind._

_Skald regained his composure in a flash. "Bishop is here?"_

_"Yes, sir."_

_"The others, too?"_

_"No. Bishop is the only one who has ever visited."_

_Skald exhaled, and the tension deflated. "Lead the way."_

_The crowd dispersed as Skald stepped down from the Vorpal and followed their host toward the largest pillar - the one with a skull carved into the face. Vates held Fiann's hand, and they trailed behind Skald. Dirge took his place behind his boss's shoulder and stared straight ahead, unable to look at the Wretched, many of whom had open sores oozing pus and blood._

_"Have you ever met the MFP, boss?" Dirge asked._

_"Once, when I was a pup. They picked a fight with some Asgardians. I respect Fetch very much as a warrior, but Three is a rabid feral that should be put down."_

"_What about Bishop?" Vates asked._

"_A typical brigand - nothing special. He's more of a talker than a fighter; rumor has it he's also a Historyman. But other than his association with some of the best, I think little of him."_

_The party stepped onto a platform, which hoisted them high above the Wretched village. A massive cave mouth opened near the top of the pillar, and the five of them stepped inside. __The host led them through the byzantine corridors of stone, pi__pes, and a bit of green. Tunnels branched in all directions, creating a labyrinth inside the rock. The Citadel was built to be defensible. Good for outlasting a siege. But those days were long gone, and judging from the unarmed guards and carefree Historymen roaming the halls, no one here expected to be attacked any time soon._

_At last, the __quintet entered a large, circular room. A pool glistened in the center of the space, reflecting light shining down from a ceiling made of skylights. Two men sat beside the pool, drinking from small mugs. Behind them was a table set up with artifacts. _

_"Pardon my interruption, sirs."_

_"Think nothing of it, Eunuch, my friend," one of the men said, waving a frail hand. He was bald, wrinkled, and wearing nothing but an old piece of cloth to cover his backside and genitals. Every bit of exposed, white skin was covered in the tattoos of a Historyman. He shielded himself from the sun with a makeshift umbrella of papers, photographs, and baubles. _

_"Lord Skald and company are here to visit," the Eunuch said._

_The second man whipped his head up at the name. He locked eyes with Skald and lurched to his feet. He wore black leather pants with high combat boots to match. A thick, red sash was tied around his waist, and around his neck hung a red scarf and beaded necklace. A red ribbon rad down the length of each braid in his thick, black hair. He wore no shirt, revealing his dark skin tattooed with a complex mandala design in white ink. __Ornate rings clacked against wood as the man drew an ancient, sawn-off, double-barrelled shotgun from a thigh holster. He leveled the weapon at the party and spoke with a deep, commanding voice. "Oi! Not a step closer."_

_Vates stepped forward anyway. "We're not afraid of you!"_

"_Hush," Skald said. He turned his attention to the old Historyman. "If I may, First, you need to work on your welcome."_

_"That I do, Asgardian. Bishop, please don't threaten my guests."_

_The Road Warrior holstered his weapon without taking his eyes from Skald. "Sorry, First. Old habits."_

_"Don't apologize to me; apologize to these poor people."_

_"Not going to do that." Bishop sighed and leaned against the table. He appeared at ease for the First's sake, but experience told everyone the Road Warrior was ready for anything._

_The First Historyman got to his feet. "Will you be staying with us for the night, master Skald?"_

_"We will, yes."_

_"Excellent. Eunuch, please prepare a room for our guests. Would you care for some tea, friends? Bishop just brought some all the way from Eden. It is exquisite."_

_"It's hard to turn down Eden spice."_

_"Then come, come, sit down. We were just going over these artifacts." The First shuffled to the table and poured six cups of tea from a steaming kettle._

_The visitors sat on the floor and accept the offered tea. Vates, Fiann, and Dirge looked around the room, memorizing exits, taking in details, trying not to stare at Bishop. The Road Warrior was striking; he looked every bit a legend. Skald sipped his tea and waited. No doubt he'd already memorized everything in the room._

_Vates leveled his eyes at Bishop. "So where are your dogs?" _

_"We had a disagreement."_

_"You fight all by yourself, then?" Fiann asked._

_"Don't do that no more. Man of God now."_

_Skald threw a skeptical glance at the Road Warrior's shotgun over the rim of his teacup. __Bishop caught his look and frowned. "Look, Skald, what the hell are you doing here? This is a place of peace, and it should be holy even to you."_

_The First Historyman raised a hand. "Now, now, Bishop just because this young man has chosen the warrior's path does not mean he is here for War. He even came unarmed - something not even you did. Perhaps he has learned from his past."_

_Bishop opened his mouth to protest, but Dirge cut him off: "First Historyman, could you tell us about those artifacts?"_

_"Of course, of course."_

_Bishop scowled, and Skald smirked. Dirge smiled behind his teacup, proud to have averted a premature confrontation. Skald would make his move when he was ready; until then, Bishop just needed to stay out of the way._

_The Midgardian party stood and crossed to the table. Skald stood opposite Bishop with Dirge on one side and Vates on the other. Fiann squeezed between Vates and the First Historyman._

"_My friend here likes to collect anything intact from the Old World. This is his latest delivery." The First picked up a small, blue cylinder. "This is called a fountain pen. It was used to -"_

_"What's this one?" Vates pointed at an object with a long, black blade that curved perpendicular to a matching handle. "Looks like a weapon."_

_The First Historyman chuckled. "Far from it. This is an ice pick. It was once used by daring explorers to climb mountains."_

_The First droned on about the history of the object, but Vates stopped listening. He snatched up the pickaxe and turned it over, testing the weight as Skald would one of his javelins. His blue eyes sparkled, and for the first time in a long time, he looked like a wonderstruck child, not a miserable young man. He showed Fiann the pickaxe, and she giggled against his shoulder._

"_It's beautiful," she said. "And it matches your hair!"_

_Bishop eyed the two of them, and his expression softened. "Why don't you keep it, kid?"_

_Vates's face lit up. "Really?"_

_"Maybe you can use it for something productive. I could show you how to mountain climb."_

_"Hell no! I'm going to kill a Road Warrior with this someday! Maybe it'll be you."_

_Bishop sighed. "You can try, kid."_

_"This is all very lovely," Skald said, barely concealing a sneer. "But we had a long drive today."_

_The old Historyman smiled. "I understand. Eunuch will be right outside the door; he'll show you to your room. Have a good night, gentlemen, lady."_

_The Eunuch led them through another series of tunnels to a wooden door. Inside lay a cozy room with two beds and a view of the Wretched village far below. Fiann jumped on one of the beds and playfully tugged Vates along with her. She kissed his neck, and his pale lips twitched into a small smile. He'd met a legendary Road Warrior, he'd gotten a new weapon, and Fiann was here. It was turning out to be a good day after all._

_Meanwhile, Skald stood at the window and gazed at the cloudless blue sky. Dirge sat on the windowsill and studied the Asgardian's thin face. There were the telltale signs: the flexing jaw, the subtle biting of the lower lip, the fiery eyes. Skald was angry._

_"What's wrong, boss?"_

"_I'm going to have to kill an MFP officer."_

_Vates gently pushed Fiann away and got to his feet. "I can help!"_

_"Vates," Dirge hissed, trying to warn the boy to stay quiet._

_"He didn't look that tough."_

_Skald spoke in a low, bitter voice: "He and the Eunuch are the only competent ones here."_

_Vates barked out a laugh."The fat manchild? You can't be serious!"_

_In a blur of yellow fabric, Skald whirled and fell upon his brother. His fist crashed into Vates's jaw, and the boy fell backward onto the stone floor. Fiann shrieked. Dirge cursed himself for not shutting Vates up in time._

_"That's an Ashtown Eunuch, you worm!" Skald said._

_Vates attempted to stand and face his brother. "So?"_

_Skald's foot came down on Vates's head, forcing him back to the ground. "That means he's a spy - an assassin. They're almost as bad as Handmaidens." __Vates groaned and tried to protect his head with both hands. __Skald lifted his foot and drove it into the boy's stomach. "And you do _not _talk to me like that, do you understand?"_

_Vates nodded._

_"What!?" Skald stomped on his brother's leg, and the kneecap gave way with a horrible pop._

_"I understand!"_

_"Good." Skald took a step back. "Stand up."_

_Vates staggered up onto his good knee. Fiann shifted on the bed, preparing to rush to his aid, but one terrible glance from Skald froze her in place. Vates crawled to the corner of the bed and hoisted himself up with trembling arms._

_Skald held out a hand. "Now give me your knife." __Vates pulled out a short, sheathed blade from his boot. Skald closed his fist around the weapon and punched Vates square in the nose. __"That's for bringing a weapon when I told you not to."_

_Vates fell backward onto the floor, unconscious, his face a mess of blood. Fiann covered her mouth with both hands. Dirge stared in horror at the red on Vates's face, on Skald's fist, on the stone floor, and promptly passed out on the windowsill._

"_Now look what you've done, Little Raven," Skald sneered. He turned sharp eyes on Fiann, who cowered on the bed before him. "Girl, clean him up, and make sure Dirge wakes up." With that, he headed out of the room, slamming the door behind him._

* * *

**WARNING:** The next chapter, set within the story of _Vates and the Axe_, features more dark content, including emotional and physical abuse (nothing sexual) and murder. If you don't feel comfortable reading the chapter but want a summary of what happens, please send me a PM. As always, thanks to everyone reading this story. Stay tuned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_Fiann jumped from the bed and knelt over her fiancé's body. Her shoulder shook with sobs, but her trained Valkyrie hands were steady as she checked him over. Once she was sure nothing was broken, Fiann hauled the thin boy onto the bed and made him comfortable. She cleaned up the blood and popped the knee back into place before stepping over to the windowsill. Dirge was still passed out, his albino face somehow whiter than usual. Fiann looked down at him, wondering how anyone could like Skald the way Dirge did. Or how Skald could treat Dirge so well instead of his own brother. The Valkyrie had seen much in her short life, but she was still too young, too naïve, to understand the type of emotional manipulation at play. She didn't want to wake Dirge at all, but she dared not risk Skald coming back to find him still asleep._

_Fiann shook the albino's shoulder. "Dirge?"_

_Dirge's pink eyes fluttered open. "Boss?"_

"_He's gone. For now." Fiann's eyes filled with angry tears, and she walked back to her betrothed._

_"Is Vates gonna make it?"_

_"Yeah. It wasn't that bad this time."_

"_Do you need help with the knee?"_

"_I got it."_

_Dirge breathed a sigh of relief. Last time, he'd had to help fix Vates's shoulder, and even though there was no blood, it wasn't a pleasant experience. Fiann lay beside her fiancé and stroked his hair._

_A long time passed. Dirge fidgeted on the bed until he couldn't take it anymore. He got to his feet and headed for the door._

"_Where are you going?" Fiann asked._

"_To find Skald. He's been gone too long. What if he ran into Bi-"_

_A knock outside cut Dirge off. Before anyone could react, the door swung open to reveal a red-clad figure. Bishop strode into the room, his jewelry clinking with every step. Dirge stood frozen. Without Skald here, the Road Warrior seemed as terrifying as Three or Fetch._

_Bishop looked at the occupied bed. Fiann sat up and put a protective arm across Vates's limp form, but her eyes were wide with fear._

_"He hurt you, girl?" Bishop asked. When Fiann shook her head, he gestured to Vates. "He do that?" Fiann nodded. Bishop closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "He killed the Eunuch. Now he's killing the Historymen."_

_Fiann averted her gaze, but Dirge kept his eyes on Bishop. "That's what he came here to do. He'll kill you, too. He -"_

_"You don't have to do this, y'know. You three don't deserve this; you're too young. You're basically pups." He cocked his head at Dirge. "A pup with white hair."_

_"What do you want with us?" Fiann asked._

_"I want to protect you. I can't save all the Historymen, but I can help you three. I'm leaving. Somewhere safe. You can come."_

_"Vates would never agree to that. He loves the Fury Road!"_

_"He's the puppet of a sick man. You all are. It breaks my heart seeing this. This happened to me, to Three, to Fetch; we went down that road. I don't want to see that happen to anyone else. Otherwise, you'll end up just like us. Just like him."_

_"Shut up!" Dirge stepped forward, his fear of Bishop overruled by loyalty to Skald. "You don't know anything about Skald, or them, or me. Just because something happened to you and your dogs doesn't mean it'll happen to us. I'm not going anywhere."_

_Bishop was taken aback for a moment, then his face fell. "And you, girl?"_

_Fiann looked from Bishop to Dirge to Vates and back to Bishop. Slowly, reluctantly, she shook her head._

_Bishop sighed. "If you ever change your mind, come find me. I'll take you in. He won't be able to hurt you anymore."_

_As the Road Warrior turned to leave, Vates sprung up from the bed. His new pickaxe flashed in his hand._

"_Vates!" Fiann gasped._

_The boy let out a roar and swung the weapon at Bishop's spine. Dirge winced, anticipating blood, but the metal only struck stone. Bishop had dodged the attack with ease, and now he turned to face the Asgardian-to-be._

"_Vates, stop!" Fiann cried. "He'll kill you!"_

_Vates lashed out in a low, horizontal strike, but the Road Warrior caught his axe and wrenched it from the boy's hand._

_"Boy, you have a lot of practice to do," Bishop said._

_Vates brought up his fists. "What're you waiting for, Road Warrior? If you want to save the Historymen, kill me!"_

_"Told you I don't do that no more." With a mighty swing, Bishop embedded the blade in the wall._

_"You're a coward!"_

_"Maybe, but I'll live a lot longer than you."_

_"Running away and hiding? What kind of life is that?"_

_"A better one. That's the idea, anyway."_

_"Not if I kill you!"_

_"Good luck." With that, Bishop left the room. His heavy footsteps hurried down the hall._

_Fiann jumped from the bed and ran to Vates's side. "Are you all right?"_

"_I have to kill him. I have to prove myself." If his wounds from Skald hurt, he didn't let it show. The moment the weapon came loose, he bolted out the door._

"_Vates, wait!" Fiann cried, but he didn't stop. She and Dirge hurried after him._

_No sign of Bishop in the hall; the Road Warrior was already gone. Vates rushed around a corner, heading in the direction of the First's main room. There were cries followed by the horrible cracking of bone. Dirge grabbed Fiann's arm and closed his eyes, letting the Valkyrie lead him through the bloody aftermath. The boy slaughtered every Historyman he saw. There was nothing the tattooed scholars could do but scream. They slouched against walls as red gushed from their skulls or major arteries. By the time the trio reached the main room, Vates had killed fifteen defenseless old men._

_Vates stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. "Where's Bishop?"_

_"You made it," Skald said. "I was just about to come get you. Fiann, it appears I'm in need of medical attention. Dirge, don't look."_

_The Asgardian was leaning over the pool, topless under his jacket, his shirt pressed against his head. His face was a red-purple mess of small, oozing holes. He reached into his mouth and pulled free a loose tooth. The First Historyman sat beside Skald, still holding the collaged umbrella. His face remained calm despite the bodies of his slaughtered brothers scattered around him. Someone had covered the corpses with patchwork sheets._

_Dirge clung to Fiann's arm as she walked to the pool. The Valkyrie leaned in close to examine Skald's face. "I'm sorry, these are going to scar."_

_"I know. I learned an important lesson today: never underestimate anyone, especially a Road Warrior."_

_Dirge stared at a clean spot on the floor. "What happened?"_

_"I tried to call his bluff. I thought his shotgun wasn't loaded, but I was only half-right. He had non-lethals. We need to train harder. I'm not good enough if Bishop can get the upper hand."_

_"He tried to get us to go with him. To get away from you."_

_Skald hummed. "Is that so? I wouldn't have held it against you too much if you'd left me. That was your only chance to get out."_

"_No way, boss. I'm loyal - you know that."_

_Despite his wounded face, Skald smiled. "Of course."_

_Vates stepped forward, clutching his pickaxe with a white-knuckled hand. "Bishop is a disgusting coward."_

_"Not necessarily," Skald said. "He simply has a different way of looking at things."_

_"What did he say to you?"_

_"We both have a lot to learn."_

_The First Historyman raised a gnarled hand and spoke without a hint of fear: "Yes, you do. You disappoint me. All of you."_

_"I can live with that," Skald said. "I appreciate your hospitality, but it's time for you to go. Vates, would you kindly?"_

_Vates dashed forward and swung the pickaxe. The First's body crumpled, and his blood spilled over the side of the pool. His umbrella clattered to the floor._

_"Now that we have that out of the way," Skald said. "It's time for what we really came for. Remember when I said you needed to prove yourself to me, brother?"_

_Dread fell over Vates's features. "I already killed every Historyman I saw. I -"_

_Without warning, Skald grabbed Fiann. Her screams were cut off as the Asgardian forced her head into the bloody pool._

"_Stop!" Vates cried._

_"This whore makes you weak, Vates!" Skald yelled over the sound of Fiann's desperate thrashing. "We need to get rid of her!" _

_"No!"_

_The boy charged at his brother, axe raised for another deadly blow. With his free hand, Skald pulled Bishop's shotgun from inside his jacket. He fired. The spread of non-lethals hit Vates square in the chest, and he landed flat on his back with a gasp. The pickaxe spiraled across the floor. Skald broke open the shotgun, ejected two shells, and tucked the weapon back in his jacket._

_"Get up!" Skald said._

_Vates groaned and staggered to his feet. His shirt was full of holes. None of the rubber pellets had broken skin, but it would be a nasty bruise. Skald pulled Fiann out of the water by the hair and threw her to the floor beside Dirge. The girl spat up water and gasped for breath. Vates took a step toward her, but Skald jumped up and stood in his way._

_"This is exactly what I'm talking about," Skald said. "You value her more than you value yourself as a warrior. Did you attack Bishop when he came to help you?"_

"_Yes!"_

_"I bet you didn't even draw blood."_

_Vates froze, then shook his head. Tears welled up in his eyes._

_"Do you know why?" Skald asked._

_"No."_

_"Because you have too many earthly attachments. You can't focus. Your mind is always clouded. I see the way you look at her; you're obsessed. It's disgusting."_

_"Asgardians are supposed to marry!"_

"We _don't get to marry, Vates. This is what we do; this is _all _we do. You'll hate me for it, but the next time you're in a fight and barely make it out alive because you focused just a tiny bit better, you'll thank me." Fiann tried to crawl away, but Skald stomped on her back. "Dirge, fetch me that pickaxe."_

"_Boss, maybe -"_

"_Careful, it has blood on it."_

"_Yes, boss."_

_Skald looked down at his brother. "Do you want to be strong like me, Vates?"_

_Vates mumbled._

_"Do you?!"_

_"Yes!" Vates dragged his sleeve across his eyes, wiping away the tears before they could fall. "Just do it already." _

_"Oh no, that would be too easy. You have to do it. Dirge?"_

_The albino held out the pickaxe to Vates, careful not to look at the gleaming red liquid on the blade._

_Vates stared at the axe for a long time. Then, in a small voice, he asked: "Why?"_

_"You know why."_

_Vates swallowed. He took the axe from Dirge, and Skald stepped aside._

_Fiann looked up from the floor with reddened eyes. "Vates, please don't do this."_

_Vates took a step forward._

"_Dirge," Fiann pleaded. "Don't let him do this. You can stop him. Please!"_

_Dirge wavered. "Skald -"_

"_Are you loyal to me or not?" Skald put a hand on Dirge's shoulder, and for the first time, Dirge was truly afraid of him._

_The albino nodded. "Yes, boss."_

"_Bishop was right!" Fiann sobbed. "Vates, please, you don't want to be like Skald. Please! He's a monster!"_

_Vates hung his head. "Fi, I -"_

_Skald cut in: "Don't apologize. It'll just make it harder."_

_Vates took a deep, shuddering breath. He approached Fiann and raised the pickaxe, eliciting a final, desperate cry for mercy from the girl._

_"Close your eyes, Dirge," Skald said._

_Dirge obeyed. There was a blunt _thwack! _Then another. And another. Then silence._


End file.
